Chapter 7 Livvie
LIVVIE
The penthouse is silent once his father and the enforcer from the Red Tribunal leave. Their warning lingers like a swirling shadow in a waking nightmare.
When the penthouse door clicks shut, Kingston doesn’t even look at me.
“I’ve got business to handle,” he says, already turning away from me. “Don’t wait up, Mrs. Viacava.”
“Believe me, I won’t,” I mutter. “There’s nothing worth waiting for.”
He disappears down the hallway without another word, the sound of his office door clicking shut like a verdict being delivered. This is the true essence of our marriage.
Kingston versus me.
I wander deeper into his penthouse, which looks exactly how I expected a man like Kingston Viacava would live. It’s dark, sleek, and meticulously designed to impress all who enter but not welcoming them to stay long.
Cold marble floors stretch beneath designer furniture that looks unused. The walls are bare, the color palette stuck somewhere between gunmetal and midnight.
I find my way to the bedroom. To our bedroom now, apparently.
He made that very clear earlier, when I’d asked if there was a guest room I could use. He promptly told me the spare bedroom was converted into a high-tech home gym.
Of course it was. Because why would Kingston need space for a guest, when everything in his world bends to serve him?
When I walk into the bedroom, it’s like crossing into the enemy's lair.
I’m sure the many women who pass through the sheets would think it’s impressive. The kind of space designed by a man who cares more about looks than substance. However, I don’t like anything about my prison.
The view from my penthouse was better and the soft furnishings turned it into a home.
This place is masculine and clearly maintained by staff. Every surface is polished to a shine. The walls are a deep charcoal, broken only by massive squeaky-clean windows that showcase the New York City skyline in all its glittering glory.
A monster-sized bed dominates the center of the room, covered in dark sheets and perfectly fluffed pillows like it’s waiting for a magazine shoot.
The room smells faintly of him—rich cologne and leather. I ignore how my belly swoops at the scent and move farther into the room, taking pins out of my hair as I go.
There’s not a single personal item in sight. No photographs, no clutter, no softness. Just an ugly black dresser, a chrome valet stand, and a pair of cuff links gleaming on the nightstand like tiny weapons.
I hover in the middle of the room, arms crossed, taking it all in.
This isn’t a bedroom. It’s a command center. Every inch of it is curated and absolutely screams Kingston and his character. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, it’s my cage.
I walk to the bed, pick up one of the silk pillows, and toss it onto the floor. Then another. Then a third.
“Congratulations, Kingston,” I mutter, launching one into the corner. “You and your ego get the floor.”
It’s petty. Childish even. But it makes me feel better, even if the elation is short-lived.
With that small act of rebellion complete, I reach behind me and start undoing the tiny pearl buttons of my dress. One by one, I peel the whole ordeal off my skin and step out of the gown, draping it across a charcoal armchair like a corpse.
Then I shake out my hair, raking through the long waves that fall around my shoulders in tangled, chaotic relief.
Sighing, I pad barefoot into the bathroom and flick on the recessed lights.
For a minor room, it’s nothing short of stunning. All black marble and gold fixtures, backlit mirrors glowing like soft candlelight. The air smells faintly of him. Even in the simplest of spaces, I can’t escape him.
I turn on the shower and step inside before it even finishes heating up and when the icy water hits, it’s like absolution.
Tilting my head back, I let the water streak my mascara, drench my hair, and wash the scent of his cologne down the drain. That heady, expensive blend that’s been stuck to my skin since I gave in to the fire he lit in my veins.
I scrub it all off. Every trace of his touch, every smear of makeup, and every memory of that brief moment when we weren’t enemies, when the tension between us became a half truce.
When I finally close my eyes, the only thing I let linger is the echo of his voice—tight with irritation when Lorenzo tried to put me in my place.
But I know better.
Kingston wasn’t standing up for me. The asshole was making a mockery of our situation by meeting his father’s expectations. There’s no way I’d believe he was protecting what’s his.
Steam still clings to the air as I step out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel tightly around myself. My skin is flushed from scrubbing, my hair heavy and wet as it falls in damp waves down my spine.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I just stare.
The woman looking back at me has tired eyes and a tightening ache in her chest. The kind of hollowness that won’t ease with luxurious surroundings and a new name because I know exactly how loveless marriages end.
And the quiet, aching solitude that comes with surviving fills me with dread.
I spot my phone on the bathroom counter where I’d tossed it earlier. The screen lights up and Roman’s name appears.
Despite knowing I shouldn’t answer, I swipe the screen and lift it to my ear. “Hey.”
“You okay, Liv?” he asks.
I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter. “You shouldn’t call me.”
“Liv—”
“It’ll cause trouble,” I say, cutting him off. “And we both know Kingston’s just looking for a reason. My da would cut you off for good, Roman.”
I can practically hear him grinding his teeth through the line. “I’m allowed to check in with you. You’re still his daughter even if you’re married to that son of a bitch.”
“Do you know anything about the Red Tribunal?” I whisper.
He goes silent for a beat. “No.”
One thing about Roman Keane is that he doesn’t hesitate unless he’s choosing his words. And he knows everything my father knows. He has to be one step ahead of the game to know what’s coming before it happens.
“Fine. Don’t call again,” I say, forcing strength into the words. “Not unless you want this shit show to get worse.”
I hang up before he can respond, pausing for a breath before stepping back into the quiet bedroom.
Crossing to the closet, I pull one of Kingston’s T-shirts from a hanger, the cotton soft and oversized in my hands. I hadn’t exactly planned for a sleepover, or for my father to get behind the absurd idea of me living with a Viacava.
My clothes are still at my place. All I have is a wedding dress I wouldn’t be caught dead in again. Tomorrow morning, I’ll burn the ugly thing.
The city glows beyond the windows, its lights glittering like distant jewels. Once, I thought they might lead to happiness. Now I know better. That kind of life was never meant for a woman like me.
I drift toward the glass, pressing my palm against the cool pane, eyes tracing the silvery moon suspended in the ink-black sky.
The truth settles over me like a flurry of ash. Standing here, barefoot and alone in the home of a man who hates my family, I understand something I’ve always tried not to think about.
This deep loneliness is the real reason why my parents had children.
Not for love or family bonds. They raised me for this very day, as leverage for power. I was born to be traded and married off when the time suited them.
Letting out a slow breath, I turn my back on the city I thought would be my savior and slip under the covers, sighing from the exhaustion of it all. The sheets are cool, the space beside me empty.
I lie on my side, staring at the pillows on the floor, wishing someone would tell me the truth.
Because in this world of shadows and kings, I’m not sure what to expect in the morning.
I wake to an unfamiliar ceiling and a bed that smells of my husband.
The space beside me is untouched. The cotton sheets are smooth, the pillow undisturbed.
Not that I’m surprised. The man I married doesn’t share space unless there’s something in it for him and now that we’re married, I’m just an object he thinks he owns.
I scoot out from under the covers and rise from the bed, the soft cotton of his stolen T-shirt brushing against my bare thighs when I stretch.
The penthouse is just as still and silent as it was the night before. No voices, no footsteps, not even the comforting waft of coffee brewing from the kitchen. There’s no sign of life at all—only sleek surfaces and shadows.
I let out a slow breath and smile to myself, grateful for the small blessing of peace and quiet. For a fleeting second, I wonder how beautiful my violin would sound in this space, the notes rising to meet the high ceilings, echoing through all this empty elegance.
After I step into a pair of his sweats and roll up the ankles, a knock breaks the quiet.
Two of Kingston’s men stand in the doorway, expressionless in black suits, hands folded in front of them like they’re posing for a police lineup.
“The boss asked us to escort you,” one of them says, voice flat and professional.
“To my execution?” I mutter under my breath.
“To your place,” the taller one adds after a beat.
I frown. “He’s letting me leave?”
The shorter of the two glances at his watch, then meets my eyes with the kind of expression that says don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
“Our instruction is to accompany you while you collect your personal belongings and escort you back here.”
I force a laugh.
“So I’m allowed to pack a bag. How generous. What if I decide to stay?” I press, arms crossing over my chest. “What will you do? Call your big, bad boss and tell him his wife’s misbehaving?”
A ghost of a smile dances over the taller guy’s mouth. “We’d advise against that, ma’am. Our job is to keep you safe.”
“And obedient?” I add.
The shorter one shakes his head once. “Just alive. How you choose to behave is up to you and how we make sure you get back safely is up to us.”
I hold their stare for a moment, then exhale through my nose in a gust.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s get this over with. I need to get out of these clothes anyway.”
I gesture to the oversized clothes hanging off my frame. “Being this close to that man is making my skin break out in a rash.”
As they lead me though the penthouse, I look about, wondering if Kingston has left too. Then I make a conscious decision not to give a fuck where he is. The more space there is between us, the better.
The elevator descends to the basement with a low hum, and when the doors slide open, the two men flank me again—silent, professional shadows. They guide me through the underground garage to a sleek black car waiting in a pool of low light, engine already running.
They don’t talk to me and I don’t acknowledge them either. We just sit there quietly as the driver takes us across the city through unfamiliar streets.
When we finally pull up to my building, I don’t wait for them to open the door. I slide out on my own and dart barefoot over the pavement, jog up the stoop, and punch in the code to open the main door.
Finally, I’m home.
Inside my apartment, I move through the space like a stranger, each step echoing with the hollow truth that it’s no longer mine.
My things are still where I left them. Discarded jewelry sits on trays atop the vanity, silk robes hang on hooks, and my violin rests in its open case, right where I left it after playing Chopin’s Funeral March the night before the wedding.
A private requiem.
My own twisted send-off before I left my dreams behind.
The sight of it hits hard, a hard punch to the ribs that leaves me breathless. God, how I’ve missed playing it.
All this was supposed to be my future.
Music. Solitude. Freedom.
Not him.
Looking left and right, everything seems… paused. Like someone hit the brakes on my life.
I move to my bedroom and hunt through the closet, packing my Louis Vuitton suitcase.
It fills fast and I wheel it into the lounge, heading for my violin.
I kneel beside it, fingertips brushing the strings before I lower the lid and snap the latches shut.
The final click sounds like a closing chapter.
Maybe it is.
I rise to my feet, suitcase handle in one hand, the violin case in the other, and take one last look around the apartment, at the space that held all the versions of me I never got to grow into.
And then I leave.
Back in the car, my phone buzzes with a message from Kingston.
Be ready by 7 pm. We’re expected at a charity gala tonight. First public appearance as my wife.
I grit my teeth. No “please.” No “hope you slept well in my bed.” No consideration that I might not be in the mood to play dress-up and be paraded in front of everyone as a trophy wife with a heavy heart.
I stare at the message, letting the reality of it all settle over me.
My wife.
He called me that a few times yesterday but seeing it spelled out before me, a phrase that’s supposed to mean devotion, loyalty, maybe even safety, it makes my anger simmer.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, understanding that this is how my new life begins.
Smile on cue. Dress to kill when required. Pretend the noose around my neck is just another diamond necklace.
And carry a gun in a thigh holster, ready to shoot any fucker who thinks my silence means surrender or that this O’Callaghan comes without claws.